DARWIN'S EVOLUTION THEORY SURVIVES PARIS
OPERA BALLET

By Patricia Boccadoro

PARIS, 11 JANUARY 2008  At first
glance, works by Angelin Preljocaj and Wayne McGregor, the young British
choreographer very much in the public eye at the moment, might seem an
oddly-assorted combination to present on the same evening, but to Brigitte
Lefèvre, artistic director of the Paris Opera Ballet, it seemed an
obvious, if personal choice. She said she had "discovered" McGregor at a
gala for AIDS, when Preljocaj' Rite of Spring was also on the
programme and from then on, began to associate the two of them in her
mind. They are not so dissimilar, as both of them tend to be theatrical
and know how to work with classical dancers.

"I was impressed with what I saw", she continued, "and
I made several trips to Covent Garden to see McGregor's work before
inviting him to create a piece for us. As I first met him with Angelin
Preljocaj, it seemed logical to present a dramatic piece by the French
choreographer at the same time."

McGregor, guest artist at the Palais Garnier for the
first time, is more than just a fashionable choreographer. In his
relatively short career, he has created some electrifying works, and
although untrained in classical dance, has the ballerinas in pointe shoes
using their classical technique.

Born in the grim, grey town of Stockport in the
industrialized North of England in 1970, he studied choreography at the
University of Leeds before completing his training at José Limon's School
in New York. At the same time that he founded his own dance company in
1992, he made his name as the resident choreographer at "The Place" in
London. Curiosity led him to create several avant-garde projects on the
Internet. Shortly after gaining critical acclaim for Chroma, a
work which won him an Olivier Award, he was appointed resident
choreographer of the Royal Ballet in December, 2006. His work with
classical dancers has been interspersed with various projects including
the choreography of a Harry Potter film, and the staging of the popular
musical, Kirikou and Karaba, created at the maison de la Danse de
Lyon, and shown at the Casino de Paris.

Genus, a ballet for 24 dancers, was inspired
by Charles Darwin's book On the Origin of Species which was
published in 1859. McGregor went to visit Darwin's vast collection on
display at London's Natural History Museum, and much of what he saw is
shown on a film projected onstage which takes the place of décor in his
ballet. Among a horde of objects that flash past one's eyes almost too
quickly to be identified, one can recognize an eagle flying, a lion, and,
pell-mell, an elderly naked man, someone running, a snake in a jar, and
pages of writing with a drawing of "the tree of life" taken from his
notebooks.

The work opens with a pas de trois, athletic and
forceful, admirably performed by Jérémie Belingard, Stéphane Phavorin and
Benjamin Pech, after which the charismatic Marie-Agnès Gillot takes over
and dominates the stage. The choreography with its magnificent lifts is as
extraordinary as the interpreter who fascinates with her long sinewy body.
She is a wild creature, animal-like, mesmerizing in her wild grace.

As she faded from the stage, it proved impossible to
tear one's eyes away from the dancing of the corps de ballet, and in
particular, nineteen year-old Mathias Heymann, neat, light, and quick. He
was partnered by Myriam Ould-Braham, an exquisite young dancer, fast and
supple, more generally seen in the traditional works. The dancing was
breathtaking, but whereas William Forsythe, with whom McGregor is often
compared, brings in deconstruction, attacking the line of classical dance
and sending his interpreters off balance, often with violence and
aggressivity, McGregor's work which is equally as precise and fast-moving,
contains an underlying gentleness and tenderness.

A central pas de deux, interpreted by the beautiful
new étoile, Emilie Cozette, partnered by Stéphane Phavorin brought a short
pause of peace and luminosity.

The work was also marked by several most effective
scenes including Marie-Agnès Gillot alone on a darkened stage within the
stage, silhouetted against a white wall on one side, opposite which bare
stark branches of trees jutted out horizontally. The setting was quite
spectacular and her slender, fluid body seemed as if suspended in time.

The dancers were being challenged by something new and
different. They were working with a choreographer who knew what he was
doing and why, and they rose to the occasion. Everyone was in superb form.

Médée, Preljocaj' 2004 dramatic ballet
created for the company three years ago completed the programme. Emilie
Cozette was superb as the enchantress who kills both her children out of
vengeance when betrayed by Jason, interpreted on this occasion by Wilfried
Romoli replacing Yann Bridard but looking, despite his fine dancing, every
one of his 44 years next to his partner, shining with the radiance of
youth.

The ballet opens with two children playing, fragile
and innocent. Medea arrives and joins in their games, enveloping them with
her love. The atmosphere changes with the entrance of Jason and a
harmonious pas de deux follows, after which Medea sleeps trustingly with
her children. The arrival of Créuse, brilliantly interpreted by Alice
Renavand, thrusts us into a dangerous world of adults as she seduces
Jason.

In this version, Medea is portrayed as a woman who
sacrifices everything for love. She comes into being when she dances,
alone or in the intricate and magnificent pas de trois with Jason and her
rival. The twisting, tortured dance for three is dominated by jealousy and
fear, and the contrast between the tall, blonde Cozette, the victim, with
the darkly beautiful, more sensual Renavand is gripping.

Renavand's command of her role was unsurprising as
this exceptional dancer was chosen by the choreographer to create the role
of Créuse in 2004, but the interpretation of Emilie Cozette, the company's
youngest étoile, who had to change from being loving and tender to
completely mad in such a short space of time, was remarkable. It is not
such a simple thing to murder one's children on stage, but Emilie Cozette
accomplished this as if it were a tribal rite, coldly determined, and
covering both children as well as herself in long slashes of blood from
two buckets before burying their heads. At this point, the music, by Mauro
Lanza, explodes in a paroxysm of violence and Medea dies at the same time,
thus avoiding the disgrace of exile for all three.

A well-balanced evening of strong works ideally suited
to the company.